


we’ll still shatter in the cold

by MANIAvinyl



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Bruce Banner & Tony Stark Friendship, Bruce Banner Is a Good Bro, Depression, Hurt Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Other, Panic, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bruce Banner, Protective Natasha Romanov, Protective Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Feels, Stressed-out Tony Stark, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony Stark-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 12:03:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17203073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MANIAvinyl/pseuds/MANIAvinyl
Summary: It’s an important convention, and Tony’s job is to market a bill, and get as many politicians on board with it as he can. Except, this bill is more important than any he’s ever lobbied for, and he’s afraid the pressure is finally starting to get to him.Or; Tony Stark has an anxiety attack at an executive Manhattan business party. Good thing the others know just what to do.Title is from “Outsider” by Blanco White— love this guy, and love his songs. Go check it out.





	we’ll still shatter in the cold

**Author's Note:**

> somebody please let tony be happy. oh also please keep in mind this is VERY lightly proofread so, don’t yell at me I know there are probably errors

Tony’s eyelids feel heavy as he turns away from the chattering group. They’re talking about the bill he’s supposed to get passed, for the avengers, about SHIELD and their role in defense and military. He hasn’t slept in days— this affair, with the secretary of defense and the array of high-up officials, may hold one of the most important measures he’s ever pushed for. He’s planted the seed, and now he needs to watch it blossom. 

But that’s so much harder than it sounds. He takes another glass of bourbon from the waiter and nearly downs it in one gulp.

Besides, the Avengers’ entire livelihood depends on how well he can market this paper, and if that isn’t insanely stressful, he doesn’t know what is. He massages his numb left arm, swallowing thickly. He’d better not have a heart attack, the thinks. Not here, at least. He takes a deep breath, straightening his tie and collar and carefully stepping his way through the party and out onto the deck. 

He smiles politely at people who waved, and occasionally stops to talk, but then quickly moves on towards the balcony. Fresh air, he decides. That’s all he needs.

The deck is large, and no wall connects the inside to the outside. A pool takes up much of the space, but there are still people littered about on the outskirts of the water.

He takes another drink.

The bass rumbles in he wood panels below him, and he turns around towards the rest of the party, only to realize his vision is going blurry. Most of the people that are huddled inside, in the orange penthouse glow surrounded by this giant city, are all just figures to Tony. Shapes. He swallows, turning back to lean his elbows on the railing. He can see his tower if he cranes his neck enough, if he looks far enough south. If he squints, he can just see the ‘A’ outline that watches over lower Manhattan. 

He tries not to think about what could happen if he doesn’t succeed here tonight. There will be other opportunities, yes, but non quite as important as this. He sips on his glass, the sharp, earthy taste of the alcohol soaking into his tongue.

He rubs his temples, desperately trying to relieve the pressure that had built behind his eyes. 

Anxiety is gradual, Tony’s noticed. It creeps up in plain sight, and you aren’t aware of it until it’s really too late. He feels something like a cold sweat creep up his spine, and he swallows thickly, pushing it down. He doesn’t have time for this— the party’s too important. It’s all too important. 

His eyes drift towards the pool. The water’s vibrating with the sound of the bass, and then he’s suddenly aware of how fake these kinds of things are— all the people here are plastic, just shells of people, stuffed to the brim with fake smiles and fancy cars and money. They remind him of a twisted version of himself, almost as if he‘s staring through a thousand broken mirrors, and he feels sick. 

But that image— it isn’t who he is, is it?

The water’s rippling and he can _hear_ it, louder now, almost like tunnel vision, like his senses have dilated. It takes him a moment to process which deep memory the deja-vu has come from.

He blinks, and for the half-second his eyes are closed he sees flashes of Afghanistan, of a loaded ak-47 held to his head and the _clang_ of metal in that crumbling lab. With it comes spikes of fear, running up and down his spine, and he tries to snap out of it and pull himself together. 

But he can’t, and he can’t seem to pull his eyes away from the water, either. And then he’s angry, frustrated because usually he can keep things like this under control. Usually he can swim in a pool full of people, or hear loud sounds, or see guns, and be _perfectly_ fine, but this time it’s just too much that’s been piling up, and too much weight on his shoulders. He’s afraid he’s cracking under the pressure. 

Trauma doesn’t discriminate, Tony’s learned. It doesn’t care your race, or gender, or social status— it’ll try to kill you all the same. Because god knows he’d try to buy his way out of this one, if only he could.

Tony’s lungs feel like they’re going to collapse, but he’s sure that it’s just the memories returning, of being waterboarded in that stale desert cave those years ago. He swallows thickly, not daring to blink in case it all came flooding back. He hated the memories. He hated that he was like this. He finishes off the bourbon, and leaves it on the tall metal table next to him.

He scans the crowd inside, finally tearing his eyes away from the pool. But everything looks blurry, and he can’t focus on any one person.

He’s sweating now, and he wipes his forehead feverishly. The helplessness makes him want to throw up.

He jumps as he feels a hand on his shoulder, spinning and swiftly arm-locking the other person despite his stress. It’s an occupational hazard, and he lets go once he sees Natasha’s face. 

“Don’t creep up on me,” he mutters, but it sounds forced. She doesn’t reply at first, but notices that his eyes are unfocused when he’s looking at her. She can hear the slight waver in his voice, and it’s not something just anyone could pick up on— only those who know him best. He’s had years of practice covering the anxiety up in public.

“You’re looking a little pale there, Stark,” she says quietly.

“I’m okay,” he says, through gritted teeth. “I’m fine. Just give me a minute.”

“Okay,” she whispers. “Did you have too much to drink?”

“Probably.”

“Can you stand up? Can I get you somewhere quiet?”

He nods, but the movements are twitchy. 

He knows his breathing exercises, and he knows what he needs to do to keep the panic at bay, yet none of it seems to be working. He lets out a shaky breath, and Natasha notices how his knuckles are starting to turn white as he grips the railing harder. She bites her lip. 

“I’m gonna find Steve,” she murmurs. “Stay here, Tony.”

He wants to protest but instead he just nods weakly, hating how irregular his breaths are becoming. He watches as she disappears into the crowd.

After a few minutes she returns with the captain, and Bruce trailing behind. She’s talking to them quickly and quietly, and Tony can see Steve’s face twist in concern. He catches his breath for a moment and moves towards them.

“Let’s go,” Steve says, voice low and quick. “Hey, Tony. It’s okay. Follow me.”

Again, Tony doesn’t have the energy to push back, so he just nods and focuses on Steve’s back as he moves through the crowd. He can vaguely hear his name being called by a few times, and somehow he’s able to lift his head up and respond, but it’s all in autopilot. Finally he’s led though a hallway, and away from the main party, then again through a door into one of the guest rooms.

Tony leans back against the wall adjacent to the door and lets out the shaky breath he didn’t know he was holding in. The quiet is good, but it still feels like his brain is short-circuiting, or misfiring like a faulty engine. Back and forth behind his eyelids are still the glint of a loaded ‘45, and the view of manhattan as he fell from that wormhole, and the dusty cave back in afghanistan. His breath hitches in his throat, and he can feel his heart skip a beat. He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out—he’s completely helpless.

“Tony... it’s okay. I promise, it’s okay,” he hears Steve’s voice and blinks open his blurry eyes. “Just listen to my voice. It’s okay.”

He nods, furiously wiping the panicked tears from under his eyes. He still can’t find the words to respond. 

“I’m gonna wait outside,” Nat says quietly. Tony knows she doesn’t like this sort of thing— it’s not that she doesn’t care, it’s more that she doesn’t know what to say. He understands. It’s not easy transitioning into daily life after living as a master double agent. 

Tony sees Steve nod, and then hears the party noise grow louder as she opens the door, then silent again as she shuts it. 

He can’t breathe, he realizes with a jolt of terror. His lungs refuse to draw in air, so he’s paralyzed with panic. 

“Jesus,” he hears Banner’s voice, gentle but laced with concern. Then, quieter, “Steve... we need to do something.”

“I know,” Steve responds, voice tight. “Tony, can you hear me?”

Tony nods again.

“Alright. It’s okay. Just— just listen to my voice. It’s okay.”

“Stop—“ Tony chokes, sharply drawing in a breath. “Stop saying that.”

“Excuse me?”

There’s a hesitation as Tony tries to find the strength to say something else. He pulls in another ragged breath, and he can feel the sharp sting of tears. “Stop saying it’s okay,” he sobbed finally. “It’s not okay. I don’t _feel_ okay.”

“That’s fine,” Bruce cut in finally, gentle and sad. “You don’t have to feel okay. Just breathe. Breathe, and it will go away.”

Easy for you to say, Tony wants to shout. But he can’t, he just hears himself let out another broken sob. It’s a terrible sound. 

He’s shaking now, not trembling but more like vibrating, and he can’t stop. 

Gunshots go off in his mind, and stale water seems to fill his nose and mouth. The panic’s starting to make his vision go fuzzy, and he feels another spark of terror when he realizes he’s actually dizzy. He slides down the wall until he’s sitting, and he’s surprised when Bruce and Steve sit down on either side of him.

Slowly, but surely, he calms down, and catches his breath. The panic comes back and forth in waves, but gradually they become weaker and weaker, until he finally has control. 

He brings his hands up, wiping under his eyes quickly, and sits up straighter. He inhales slowly, and tilts his head back until it hits the wall. He blinks a few times, relaxing his muscles like Banner used to tell him to do, and slowly exhales again.

“Jesus,” he mumbles, not daring to look towards his friends. He’s embarrassed enough, without having to see their sympathetic faces. “How long was that? It’s got to be a new record.”

“Ten minutes?” Banner says quietly.

Tony swallows, and lets Steve pull him up to his feet. His legs feel like static, and he has to brace himself against the wall for a moment. 

“I’m sorry,” Tony whispers after a while. “I don’t know what happened. I just—“

“Don’t apologize,” says Steve. “You don’t need to apologize.”

But still, he feels guilty. It’s eating at him, and the two of them can tell.

“Hey.” Bruce speaks up from where he sat on the bed. “We care about you, okay? That’s why we’re here. ‘cause we care about you.”

“Thanks.” It’s sarcastic. “You know, that really means a lot—“

“I’m being serious,” Bruce interrupts. “I know it sounds corny, but you need to hear it.”

Tony hesitates before responding. 

“Alright,” he breathes. “Thanks. Really. I— I don’t know what I would’ve done if you guys hadn’t been here.” 

Steve clears his throat. “You know, during world war 2—“

“Oh, you fought in that? I had no idea. At all. You never bring it up,” Tony murmurs. The jab is weak, but it’s there, and it‘s a sign that Tony‘s returning to himself. 

Steve grins for a moment. 

“As I was saying.” He shifts. “In the war, we used to call that shell-shock.“

“Hm.”

“The guys, they— they’d just lose their minds. I don’t want to see that happen to you.”

Tony smiles, but it’s was sort of pained. 

“I’ll live, Cap. Trust me on that,” he murmurs. “I’ll live.”

Bruce bites his lip, and Tony feels the doctor’s eyes burning into his skin. 

“What?” he asks finally.

“Nothing,” Bruce replies. “You... you look exhausted... You feeling alright now?”

Tony is silent for a while, gazing out the window at the city and then back to his friends. 

“I don’t know,” he says weakly. “I’m sorry.” His voice cracks on that last word. He looks miserable, and at the end of his rope, and Bruce is quick to backtrack.

“It’s fine,” Bruce assures. “It’s fine. Look, the party’s already winding down, so we can leave now, if you’d like.”

He wants to say no, that he needs to keep campaigning until _everyone_ leaves, but he doesn’t even have the energy to reply. He just nods, and lets Steve guide him out of the room. 

Natasha joins them, and she stands in front of Tony for a moment. Her eyes are full of concern. “You alive?” she asks softly, and he finds himself feeling cold— so cold. So without thinking, he melts into her and wraps his arms tight. She hesitates for a moment, but then hugs back; she’s warm, and he exhales shakily.

“For now,” he breathes. 

“We going home?”

“Yeah.”

—

Tony’s lying on the couch, head propped up on the armrest. It’s late, way too late, but Tony’s mind is still racing, and he‘s still on edge, so he knows he won’t be able to sleep just yet. 

“You didn’t have to stay awake with me,” Tony murmurs.

Steve shifts, in his place in the reclining chair. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

“Well, still. I’m sorry.”

“Jeez, Stark. How many times have I told ya? Quit saying sorry. None of this is your fault.”

Tony thinks for a minute, eyes drifting towards the ceiling. 

“You know, sometimes I think it is.” He focuses on Steve again.

“Why?”

He shrugs. “It’s just the path I’ve taken,” he says. “It’s the price I’ve got to pay.”

“For what, Tony?” he asks, though it sounds more like a sentence than a question. 

He smiles, but it’s full of sadness, and he looks so, so tired. “I was a war profiteer,” he whispers. “And now, an avenger. This... this life I’ve led, it’s taken far too many lives. It’s just what I’ve got to pay.”

“There are casualties on both sides of a war,” Steve tells him quietly. “It’s just something we have to live with.”

“Not when the _war_ is my fault,” Tony says, and Steve can hear a slight tremor in his voice. “God, Cap, it’s all my fault.”

“It’s not all your fault. Quit telling yourself that.”

Tony laughs, just a sharp exhale. “If only,” he says. “I think I’ll be telling myself that forever.”

Steve is silent for a while. “Well,” he whispers. “You shouldn’t.”

Tony doesn’t respond, and they sit in comfortable silence as the city glows below. The flickering lights were same as it always is, and it gives Tony a sense of comfort, like this is home. He glances at Steve, and he feeling only grows, and for a moment he almost believes he doesn’t deserve this pain his old life brings. 

“What does it feel like?” Steve asks finally. “When— when the—“ he trails off.

“The attacks?”

Steve nods. 

Tony hesitates, thinking. “Fear,” he sighs finally. Just pure, primal fear.” Tony finds it ironic for a moment, that he’s explaining this at all. He knows that Steve is aware of Tony’s anxieties, but since he’s worked so hard to keep up his image, this conversation is entirely new. 

His raspy voice feels raw in his throat as he continues, carefully planning his words.

“You lose all hope, and you lose it so quickly that your brain just doesn’t know what to do. And the flashbacks come back, too, even when you haven’t seen them in years.” Tony swallows, hating how his voice is growing shakier. “ _Especially_ when you haven’t seen them in years.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.” Tony runs the heel of his palm under his eye. He’s not sure if he’s crying or not.

“But you’re okay now.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tony shifts. “I’ll be okay.”

“There’s difference between ‘okay’ and ‘will be okay’,” Steve tells him. “I’m not sure you know the difference.”

“I don’t need to know the difference,” he sighs. “There’s just rough patches, but I know they’ll pass. Trust me.”

“I do trust you,” Steve murmurs. “I just wish you didn’t have to suffer so much.”

Tony smiles weakly. “Thanks. Means a lot.”

The light of the cars moving below dance on their skin, like the light underwater or the twinkle of the stars above.

When Tony looks at Steve, he sees warmth. He sees somebody so vastly different from himself, all the way down to the time period, yet family nonetheless. It’s peace, finally, because he knows that those he surrounds himself with— his _family_ — truly love him, and see him in a completely different light than he sees himself. 

So then maybe one day, he, too can see himself as they do, or as he sees them. It’s a cycle, but it’s a cycle of growth, and of peace, and happiness.

—

Tony yawns. “I don’t think I can keep my eyes open much longer, Capsicle.”

Steve smiles softly. “Alright,” he whispers. He stands up, and helps Tony to his feet. 

“Goodnight, tin can.”

“Goodnight, Mr. America.”


End file.
